


> You tighten your hand around his throat.

by sandpapersnowman



Category: Date or Die (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, F/M, POV Second Person, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandpapersnowman/pseuds/sandpapersnowman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite how awful this situation is, you’re going to make it out alive. You’re going to get out of here, without hurting anyone else unless you have to.</p><p>With the exception of your gracious <i>host</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cis Dude Host

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguiniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguiniel/gifts).



> so if you havent played [the demo](https://arden.itch.io/demo-or-die) for [Date or Die](http://dateordiegame.com/about), like..... do that. continuation of choosing the host, and then >If I have to.
> 
> first chapter is cis dude host w a dick, second is trans dude host w vag. very little wording is changed i think literally just two

Despite how awful this situation is, you’re going to make it out alive. You’re going to get out of here, without hurting anyone else unless you have to.

With the exception of your gracious _host_.

“ _Darling_ ,” he gasps, as your hand tightens too much. “Don’t you want to at least meet the other contestants first?”

He’s still teasing, joking, like somehow he’s in control here. He may have the killswitch, he may know who’s who, he may have access to the cameras, but _you_ are the one his hips are twitching up against. _You_ are the one making him swell in his pants, and he’s so small that his whole throat fits neatly into your palm.

“D- _Darling_ ,” he gasps again, genuinely starting to run out of air.

You don’t care. Even if you did care about his wellbeing, you might not have stopped anyway.

His mouth is hanging open and you can hear him struggling to get air to his lungs; his eyes you can only faintly see under his mask, but it looks like his focus is far away and halfway up the ceiling. He’s certainly not looking at you.

He’s drooling a bit, saliva sliding off the tip of his tongue and down his bottom lip and onto his chin some. You’ll have to remember to wipe that off of you if it drips. _After_ he leaves, though. The idea of him walking into a room full of his own prisoners with his own needy spit dried to his face is too good.

It’s only once the blush under his skin turns maroon, then purple, then too-dark purple that you let go.

Where he’d once been supporting your weight, he now practically collapses against you. Your leg is still between his thighs, so he mostly collapses on that, and makes the most strained whimper when the rush of air is complemented by the rush of friction.

“You don’t say a _word_ ,” is all you tell him, and he actually nods against your chest. He’s practically tucked his face under your chin, the fucker, like that was some fun kinky roleplay.

Not that it wasn’t fun. Or kinky.

You give him a few more seconds to collect himself, then push him off your front. He barely catches himself, which is kind of a shame. Him falling on his ass now would have been the icing on this weird situation cake.

You consider wiping the blood on your hand off onto his obnoxious jacket, but you don’t want to touch him again and him jizz his pants at your disdain.

As you head out to meet with the other contestants and try to get your story straight, he clears his throat the best he can.

“Ten minutes,” is all you hear, rasped in a voice like he’s still riding the high of you almost killing his terrible pastel ass.

Ten minutes. You know.


	2. Trans Dude Host

Despite how awful this situation is, you’re going to make it out alive. You’re going to get out of here, without hurting anyone else unless you have to.

With the exception of your gracious _host_.

“ _Darling_ ,” he gasps, as your hand tightens too much. “Don’t you want to at least meet the other contestants first?”

He’s still teasing, joking, like somehow he’s in control here. He may have the killswitch, he may know who’s who, he may have access to the cameras, but _you_ are the one his hips are twitching up against. _You_ are the one making his cunt slick in his pants, and he’s so small that his whole throat fits neatly into your palm.

“D- _Darling_ ,” he gasps again, genuinely starting to run out of air.

You don’t care. Even if you did care about his wellbeing, you might not have stopped anyway.

His mouth is hanging open and you can hear him struggling to get air to his lungs; his eyes you can only faintly see under his mask, but it looks like his focus is far away and halfway up the ceiling. He’s certainly not looking at you.

He’s drooling a bit, saliva sliding off the tip of his tongue and down his bottom lip and onto his chin some. You’ll have to remember to wipe that off of you if it drips. _After_ he leaves, though. The idea of him walking into a room full of his own prisoners with his own needy spit dried to his face is too good.

It’s only once the blush under his skin turns maroon, then purple, then too-dark purple that you let go.

Where he’d once been supporting your weight, he now practically collapses against you. Your leg is still between his thighs, so he mostly collapses on that, and makes the most strained whimper when the rush of air is complemented by the rush of friction.

“You don’t say a _word_ ,” is all you tell him, and he actually nods against your chest. He’s practically tucked his face under your chin, the fucker, like that was some fun kinky roleplay.

Not that it wasn’t fun. Or kinky.

You give him a few more seconds to collect himself, then push him off your front. He barely catches himself, which is kind of a shame. Him falling on his ass now would have been the icing on this weird situation cake.

You consider wiping the blood on your hand off onto his obnoxious jacket, but you don’t want to touch him again and him jizz his pants at your disdain.

As you head out to meet with the other contestants and try to get your story straight, he clears his throat the best he can.

“Ten minutes,” is all you hear, rasped in a voice like he’s still riding the high of you almost killing his terrible pastel ass.

Ten minutes. You know.

**Author's Note:**

> did you know you can find me on [tumblr](http://sandpapersnowman.tumblr.com/ao3direct)? : O


End file.
